Christmas Past
by Wickfield
Summary: David Copperfield. Seven different Christmases in the life of David Copperfield.
1. Puddings and Promises

**Christmas Past**

* * *

**1. Puddings and Promises**

I think it has been remarked before, by men and writers much greater than I, that Christmastime is a part of the year that engenders reflection, and remembrance, more than any other time of the year. I have made my way through nearly two score Christmases, myself – though I can think of six or seven, which have stood out, to me, clearly, like stars in a night sky, or red holly in the white snow, a natural part of my history, but more meaningful, for they taught me things I otherwise might not have seen or understood about the people who surrounded me, and things about myself, as well.

-x-

As it is my custom to begin at the beginning, I shall discuss a Christmas that took place early in my history – indeed, I believe I was only seven years old, perhaps younger, at the time of which I speak. At that tender age, though, I was already quite accustomed, and looked forward with much vigor and energy, to wintertime at the Rookery.

It is curious to me to observe that, in those early days at the Rookery, there were actually two kinds of ways we celebrated that most holy of holidays. My young mother, I remember, shone quite beautifully at Christmas, and was, in my eyes, the embodiment of the Christmas star herself. She was very gay, always singing Christmas songs, always tripping out in her furs and lace to buy gifts for everyone she knew, which was quite a lot of people. Or she would be invited to go sleighing or skating (though she was a widow, she was still young and pretty), or to go singing for others, or to parties, from which she would come back very late in the evening, and wake me up to tell me (and Peggotty) of all the fun. Often, she would decided to have a little party for the people of Blunderstone herself, and she would give a list of dishes to Peggotty to prepare for the occasion, who received her orders very solemnly, as if she were cooking for a princess; and my mother would buy me a fine new suit of clothes for the party (and if my mother were a princess, as I fancied, then in my finery I surely was her accompanying prince).

If my mother presided over the parlor and dining room, and made our holiday splendid and fine – well, Peggotty presided over the kitchen, and worked to make Christmas cheerful and jolly, like a good holiday spirit. She often wore a sprig of holly in her cap, which I remember cearly now, though her round red face did enough honor to that plant as any of nature's berries would. I loved to follow my good nurse into the kitchen in the days leading up to festivities, under pretense of assisting her, but really in hopes I might be offered a spoon or plate which I could clean by questionable methods. Peggotty seemed to know all her recipes without writing them down or looking them up, and she spoke a great deal of dashes and pinches (which to my infant mind seemed a little fierce); she managed large and fearsome racks of meat with great dexterity, usually informing me that her brother Dan'l was uncommon fond of pork, or repeating Ham's praises of her fig pudding, in which I agreed most heartily.

I will admit, however, that between parties, new suits of clothes, and plum puddings, in my youth I rather lost sight of the agreed-upon significance of Christmas – even though we three went to church every Sunday, most diligently. In fact, I think I quite astonished Peggotty on the Christmas of which I write now, when, a little peevish from being denied the batter spoon for the third time, I answered to Peggotty's inquiry of "Mas'r Davy, why don't you tell me what Christmas is all about?" - when, I say, I answered, "Pudding," in a dogged tone, and with my eye still on the tempting spoon.

The look on her face made me seriously suspect that was quite the incorrect answer, and that, for my impudence, I was at great peril of never receiving pudding, or any other sweetmeat, ever again. I therefore remained very diffident, until her look subsided, and she returned to stirring the bowl.

"Well, Mas'r Davy," she began, at length, "for little boys of not quite seven years old, p'raps pudding _is_ quite a splendid part of Christmas." I said "no," because her tone made me uneasy and a little guilty.

"I'm glad to hear _that_, then, Davy. How about you let your cross old Peggotty tell you a story then, eh?"

I said I would like it very much, if she wouldn't be angry with me. She laughed. "No, sir! But you listen very well. Once, a long time ago, in the east, where there are deserts and camels and such, a little baby boy was born under a star."

I said that would be very nice, and she nodded. "Yes, Davy. And that baby boy and you had a few things in common. For instance, his Pa was in Heaven, too, in a way – though he still had his good mama to care for him on earth, and her kind husband. Indeed, he was very much loved by everyone as knew him, though he WAS poor, and born in a stable. Perhaps he even had a fondness for pudding," she added, mischievously. "He was our lord and savior, Davy, and he grew up to be very kind and good, and to teach us to be so, too. Even when things was hardest for him, and his friends were false, he kept on trying to be good, and we ought to try, too. Christmas is for remembering his birthday, and all he did for us, and taught us."

I was very silent, and more guilty than ever – but as always, Peggotty's plain words had touched and guided me, and in imagining the little baby and boy our lord had been, I thought, perhaps, he was not so different from me, and I _could_ try to be a little like him. Noticing my silence, Peggotty smiled, her real, warm smile, and give me a spoon. "That's a good boy, Davy. I think you understand why we must always remember Christmas now, eh?"

"Yes, Peggotty," said I. "And…I shall never forget what you told me."

I said that, then, to ease my mind's guilt, and to be worthy of my spoon of pudding batter. But I never did forget her words, and tried to stay true to what she told me of our little king's example – even when times were hardest, and my friends were found false.


	2. Stick-figures and Scarves

**2. Stick-figures and Scarves**

* * *

"Can you see it now, or shall I explain it to you?"

It was rather difficult, I found, to see anything at all, with Tommy Traddles leaning over my shoulder, and getting all his great tumble of hair in my face as he did so. We were both of us looking upon his little slate, which I held in my two hands, and upon which was a drawing, carefully done, in great although childish detail, in white chalk. It was his Christmas present to me.

Before I had a chance to say anything to Tommy – though I would have answered in the affirmative – he began to helpfully explain in a voice half-timid, and half-eager. "Well you see, this, here, is you." He pointed to a small figure, whose body was made up of all sticks, and whose head was prodigiously round, who happened to be in possession of a square, which he held in the air. "I drew you holding a book, because you are always reading to us boys, every night, out of _Gulliver's Travels_."

"Oh," said I.

"There was no room to write the title though," Traddles added a bit apologetically, I thought. There was another figure in the picture too, whom, at first, I had taken to be a broom, due to all the rays proceeding out of his hand. "And who is that?" I asked.

"Why, that's me, of course!" Traddles informed me with a smile. "I do hope you like it – I worked pretty hard at it because I don't usually draw backgrounds – " in the picture, we were standing in front of a table laden with Christmas presents – "and I got caned because there wasn't room enough for my sums, but I didn't mind, and I wanted to show it to you, you know, before we went home for holidays."

I didn't know what to say, and so I looked down at the drawing again. "Why are the skeletons?" I asked, at last, observing a pair looking down, menacingly, from an upper corner of his slate.

"What? Oh dear, those were left over." And wetting his thumb, he began to rub them out.

I felt rather abashed at receiving Traddles' drawing for a Christmas present because, I must own, the thought of giving him a gift had never occurred to me in the slightest. I thought, unceasingly, that I was going to see my mother at home – and when I wasn't thinking of her, I was wondering what earthly good could possibly satisfy me as a suitable Christmas gift for Steerforth (I had decided, at last, that he himself would know what thing he would like best and so, the second I received my allowance in silver from Peggotty, I instantly gave it all up to him, as his present, and did myself the honor of being the first to give him his gift that year). Among these great thoughts, Tommy Traddles was very insignificant, and I now struggled to think of something I could give him in return.

"I…I thank you very much, Tommy," I told him, at last, "and…I plan to write you a story while I am at home, when I have more time, you know."

"Really!" he cried, pausing in his eradication of the skeletons, with a bright face. "Capital! And sensible too – perhaps I should have drawn your picture when I was at home with my uncle, too, as then I would have had some paper."

I was about to assure him, rather grandly I am afraid, that it couldn't be helped now, when suddenly the slate was plucked from out of his hands and slung across the dormitory. "Get off it, Traddles, no one wants your old stick-figure drawings, we're exhausted enough of them already. Hello, Copperfield."

It was Steerforth. Tommy could not make any particular response to this unusual greeting, and so rather meekly went to reclaim his slate which, luckily for him, had landed upon someone's bed.

I was very glad to know I was soon going to see my mother, and Peggotty, and yet at the same time I was very sorry I should be losing Steerforth. I would have been pleased enough, to be sure, in knowing he had thought to bid me farewell – I was doubly honored, then, when he tossed me a package wrapped in colored tissue paper.

"I thought I'd better give you this before you go, you know, for I shan't see you for some time," he told me, carelessly, as Traddles reappeared at my side. With trembling fingers, I carefully slit the paper and drew forth a beautiful, bright red wrapper, made of fine, soft yarn, and lovely to the touch. Only a half-a-dozen boys in the room, all older than I, wore a similar scarf, for Steerforth was very selective in his gift-giving habits, and I could scarcely believe I had been counted among the ranks of his most esteemed friends.

"It isn't a snake, Copperfield!" Steerforth laughed, I suppose at my wordless rapture with my gift. "Put it on!"

I slipped it over my collar, where it hung and glowed, I thought, like a heavy ray of light. "Why, it's very nice," Traddles said, sincerely – and I realized he hadn't gotten one, and I wondered if he was jealous.

"Aren't they?" Steerforth agreed, with some satisfaction. "Mother sent them – I picked out the paper, though."

"Thank you, Steerforth!" I cried, pressing his hand in true gratitude, "Thank you, very much! I shall be sure to be very careful with it!"

Steerforth laughed again. "Well, it'll keep you from catching cold, at any rate. Devilish nasty weather for the ride home, I should say. Merry Christmas to you, Copperfield! Write me during the holiday, I shall certainly try to write you if I can find the time!"

With one last clap on my shoulder, and the shining smile that belonged to him alone, Steerforth strode off to oversee his trunks being loaded into his mother's carriage, for his journey home. I touched his scarf, and felt as if he were present with me still.

"Lord, I guess it IS almost time to go!" Traddles exclaimed, at Steerforth's parting words. "I'd better go get packed, myself, or Tungay'll box my ears when he comes back. Anyway, happy Christmas, Copperfield! I hope you liked your drawing." I assured him I did, at which he smiled, and shook my hand, but I no more thought of his drawing then, than I thought of the story I was supposed to write him at home, where there was only time enough, I found, to write letters to Steerforth.

I still have the red wrapper given me by Steerforth, in that time at Salem House – it is in a trunk, somewhere in the attic of my house. I never wore it except that one time – at first, for fear it would be confiscated by my father-in-law as an article too fine for my possession, if he were to see it – later, out of concern it would be damaged or spoiled in its use – later, still, from the regret and bitterness the sight of it engendered, in its connection with the one who gave it to me. Now I have a scarf that is much warmer, which I wear every year, that was knit for me by my daughter; and each Christmas season, when my family dines with his (as is our tradition), I rather wish Traddles _had_ waited until he went home to make my drawing on paper. For every year I think, with regret, that I should like to see it again.


	3. Fortune and Price

**Fortune and Price**

* * *

Whatever poet it was that remarked on the singular calm beauty of winter, had never been in London at that time of year. How sharp the wind bites – how damp and grey it makes everything (including all the people), and how depressing to the spirits! Indeed, upon experiencing my first winter in London, I had begun to distrust that poet more even than Mealy Potatoes, who was continually threatening to run off to be a sailor, and never did.

I had found out, on the day that I recall, that according to Mr. Quinion I would be allowed a leave off my work on Christmas Day, though I would receive no pay. I could not decide, as I made the weary journey home, in the dark, whether I was pleased by this news. Indeed, I had nearly forgotten Christmas – every day of my new life blended one into the other, in its dreariness and toil, and what had I to expect on the holy day, anyway? There would, of course, be no celebration for _me_ – in fact, I dreaded the evil memories I knew would return to haunt me on that day, more than any other. To think that there wouldn't be bright sprigs of green in the windows, or solemn services at the little church; that I would never again see the snow gently falling at the Rookery, purifying all around, including the stone upon my father's grave! And then I recalled that, in some distant field, the ice would softly be kissing my mother and her child, just as it kissed another mother and child, many years ago – and I would put my knuckles to my eyes.

Of course, by the time I arrived at my lodgings with the Micawbers, I was in very low spirits indeed, and forgot to look around for debt collectors before entering in at the front door. In fact I was quite surprised to observe a quietude very unusual for the Micawber household, and I believe I was a little frightened, until I entered the parlour, and discovered Mr. Micawber, who was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, with his face in his hands, and his hands on his knees.

"Is Mr. Micawber well?" I asked his wife, who was standing next to him in the midst of their descendants. Before she could answer, Mr. Micawber raised his head sepulchrally, and looked at me. "Young Copperfield," he answered, clearly shaken, "I have failed in my duty as provider! To think, I have been brought so low that – that…THERE WILL BE NO CHRISTMAS."

I was surprised by this statement, and was confused to find that the children weren't, but as Mr. Micawber seemed to be very depressed, I said, as I hung up my meager greatcoat and scarf, "Surely, Mr. Micawber, there will be some kind of Christmas?" As I didn't really believe the general proceedings would halt on his account. Yet, "None," he responded. "Unless things look up, which I pray they will, but do not bank upon, we shall be as impoverished, as denied of worldly fodder on that occasion, as on any other!"

I thought I smelled a cinnamon holiday cake in the kitchen, to which Mrs. Micawber had vanished, but refrained from observing this. "I'm sure there's no shame in a simple Christmas," I said, kindly. "After all, the first Christmas was in a stable, you know."

Mr. Micawber sniffled.

"And," I continued, "we are all in good health, and are in nice company, and that will content us, wouldn't you agree sir?"

He looked up at me – one solemn look. "Out of the mouth of babes," he quoted impressively, and appeared a little rallied. And indeed, he seemed to be in better spirits the rest of that evening, and presided over the table with his usual elegance.

I don't know what it was, but somehow, I was unsure of Mr. Micawber's accuracy in predicting a nonexistent Christmas, and I had known him only for a short time then. I had the strange feeling that, somehow, Mr. Micawber expected such a blow. "But I'm sure he must have known from his account-books, either way," I reasoned with myself. I thought about this all the next day (whenever I had a scrap of time to think, in my work at Murdstone and Grimby's), and thought about it on my way home too, but came to no conclusion on the matter. However, when I arrived at my lodgings, something singular did occur which further mystified me. It took Mr. Micawber an hour and a half longer to arrive home than usual; we were very glad to see him stomp in at 7 o'clock, and shake the moisture from his dreadnought (I think Mrs. Micawber was gladdest of all, for she was very close to a paroxysm).

"Micawber, Micawber!" she cried, her hand at her heart, as she rushed towards the door. "Why, what package do you bear, my dear?" For indeed, Mr. Micawber had two large, irregularly-shaped whitey-brown packages crammed up beneath each arm.

"Emma, my dear," he explained, "the goddess of Winter has blessed us. The solar sphere, though considerably weakened since its autumnal traversing, radiates upon a family called M. For, benignly, I was guided by those ephemeral rays to a palace of refuse – in short, found a rubbish heap – and availed myself of two customary…botanical specimens. Topiaries, my love, Christmas topiaries!" The children, rather viciously, as though they'd been starved, tore the paper off, and there were two of the neatest little topiaries I ever saw. One had little oranges on it, the other crab apples. "Why, Mr. Micawber, said I, very enthused by the prospects, "things are looking up!" That gentleman mildly indicated his agreement, with an aristocratic nod of his head.

Indeed, things seemed to look up a little bit more every following day, I found. The next day, Mr. Micawber had been given some sugar candy by a kind gentleman (he said), which he delivered to his children. The next, he had evidently happened upon a few baubles with which to decorate the shabby front room. One day he came home with half-a-bottle of rum for the punch, discarded, he said, by someone more fortunate than he. Though I was always quite pleased at his good fortune, I grew less so, and more mystified, as his luck continued. But his own children never seemed mystified – indeed, if I hadn't known better, I might have believed their Christmas to have been cancelled every year, in their apathy at the matter – so I decided to ignore my own suspicions. However, his fortune on Christmas Eve itself was quite beyond any great fortune _I_ had ever experienced. We children, and Mrs. Micawber, were in the kitchen puzzling over a pudding that had gone flat when we heard a loud commotion near the front door.

"Emma!" Mr. Micawber could be heard crying from the front room. "Providence, Emma!" We all rushed to Mr. Micawber's call, and I must admit I was extremely surprised by the sight that greeted me – less so, though, than if it had occurred that morning. Mr. Micawber was in possession of a monstrous goose. He held it by the neck, like a Tartar might have held his victim, by their hair. He seemed quite humbled by his prize. "Which makes sense," I considered, "since it must have been a gift."

"Micawber, what a prize! But…but how can this be?" the lady of the house cried, in a flutter.

"We have taken from the cornucopia of the saints," her husband answered, "nay, dare I say, we were blessed with the ambrosia of the gods!" Though it was quite a common goose.

"Perhaps, " Mrs. Micawber said, piously, "There is One who _wishes_ we celebrate his birth, and is providing for us accordingly."

"I do not know, Emma, but I must say it is a devilish good goose. If I may expound upon such an irrelevant observation." Mrs. Micawber delicately agreed, and went to put green things on it, and thrust it into the fire; and Mr. Micawber, divesting himself of his outerwear, made his way to the punch stand with great haste to begin preparations. "For it needs time to _meld_," he told me, like the artisan he was.

What with the Christmas topiaries, and the decorations, and the fine meal Mrs. Micawber had prepared with her own fair hands, and the splendid Christmas goose and punch that accompanied it, I was in quite a state of rapture for my young ten years. As I said – I had never expected to have a fine Christmas since I left the Rookery, and certainly not with the Micawber family, of all people. But we were all very joyous, and happy, and merry, and I drank a great deal of punch.

We soon retired into the parlor for games, although under the influence of the punch my appreciation for the festivities was rather dulled. In the middle of the game of charades, I even fancied I heard a knock on the front door. I was getting very sleepy, though it was not very late, and in my foggy state I attempted to revive myself with a glass more punch – when I thought I heard the knock again. I looked at Mr. Micawber, surprised he did not hear it, for it was rather loud, but he was industriously poking the fire. Suddenly, he burst into a round of carols. "We wish you a Merry Christmas," he bellowed, "now come, all together!" and we all pitched in, shouting the carol for the world to hear, at the top of our lungs, I most enthusiastically of all, though I somehow kept forgetting the words, and mixing up "figgy pudding" with various other dishes. And yet I still thought I heard knocking at the door. By our third chorus, I could hear it plainly, the heavy thumps rising against the song. "Mr. Micawber," I began, though the family kept singing. "Mr. Micawber, there is someone at your door!"

But they kept on singing.

I looked round helplessly, and would have liked more punch, when at the next round, Mr. Micawber changed the words of the song to say,

"We're singing to keep 'em waiting,

they'll think that we cannot hear 'em,

they won't interrupt our Christmas

and they'll _all go away_!"

He meant the debt collectors! The debt collectors must have come on a holiday! Now I knew why all the Christmas things had been so easily found – they'd been_ bought_! Did Mr. Micawber do this every Christmas – pay for things he could not afford? Was that why his children were so used to the cancellation, and subsequent revival, of the holiday?

I was in a greatly guilty state of mind, and the raucous singing was disconcerting, and I felt myself about to cry, when suddenly Mrs. Micawber paused, and put her finger to her lips. She glided, like some ethereal being, to the door; she peeped out the keyhole; she came away triumphant. "They are gone, my dear."

Mr. Micawber applauded himself and his family. "Well done! Postponed for another day, and very properly too. Who can envisage the unmatched impudence of those fellows? Interrupting a family's Christmas? Fie, for shame! But it has been a good one, eh, Copperfield?" I didn't answer right away – as I said, I was very confused, and Mr. Micawber perceived this. "Come now, Copperfield, your usually seraphic face seems to speak of guilt and villainy! Perhaps I _did_ draw forth from my little meager – ah, perhaps almost nonexistent – worldly stock to brighten up our Christmas, but what of it? The debt collectors _will_ come – they always do, like all evil spirits traversing here on there on the planet we call home – and we might as well have one day of celebration. Don't you think it was worth it?"

And, oddly enough, I understood that gentleman's meaning, somehow. Perhaps we would pay for our Christmas, and our happiness, later on…but one day, just _one_ day, to interrupt the dreary misery I had felt every other day in the year, was worth far more than the monetary debt with which it had charged us.

"It was quite worth it, sir," I answered. He simply winked at me, knowingly, and drank down another glass of punch.


	4. Snowflakes and Secrets

**Snowflakes and Secrets**

* * *

It had been a custom, in the first years I attended Dr. Strong's good school in Canterbury, for me to return to my aunt for the duration of our Christmas holidays. "I am sure you would be glad to keep him to yourself, Mr. Wickfield," my aunt had told that gentleman, with her usual frankness and candour, "And Agnes, too, but you shall have to spare him for that holiday week. For I am fond of my grand-nephew, and accustomed to having my way, and there is an end to that."

Despite his good opinion of me, I don't think Mr. Wickfield had any intentions of contesting the point, but my aunt had a habit of approaching certain topics with a military air, as she did now, standing straight and tall in her gentlemanly cloak and winter hat, and looking the picture of a general in a dress and tucker.

The first Christmas I spent with my aunt shall be impressed upon my memory for ever afterwards, as one of the first entirely happy and pleasant holidays I spent away from my home, at the Rookery, with Peggotty and my mother. To be sure, it was a very _different_ kind of Christmas. My aunt was decidedly against cakes, for instance, which had been my nurse's pride, but she had a great affinity for a certain kind of ham, which Janet cooked very carefully, and to my aunt's exact specifications. There was also a profusion of tea with cider and cloves in it, which my aunt informed me, insinuatingly, warned off colds and coughs, and which she made me drink, whenever I entered her presence.

And to see Mr. Dick's transports of joy, in leaving off his Memorial ("It is a holiday, you know," he told me), and sitting in the floor, making paper chains and snowflakes with which to decorate the parlor, in which important task I would often join him, when I was finished reading or writing letters to Mr. Wickfield and Agnes, and Dr. Strong. Mr. Dick's love for his paper snowflakes (which my aunt proudly tacked up in all the windows) was exceeded only by his love for the real snow. The first year, clearest in my memory, the snow began falling as my aunt I made our journey in the pony-chaise to the house in Dover. Mr. Dick ran about the yard, in his thickest coat and, I believe, all the scarves in the house, being careful to step only in the spots where he had already left footprints, lest he spoil the splendor of the shining white. When night fell, and my aunt ordered him inside, he pulled me to all the windows in the house, so we could see how the snow changed every view, and every view changed the look of the snow.

Mr. Dick and I were very great friends at this time of the season, but I soon noticed a change in him that perplexed me. Whenever I was to pass him in the hallway, or meet him in the kitchen, his eyes, upon spying me, would go quite wide, and he would run away in the opposite direction. He also rather lost his art of conversation and would, very regularly, begin to open his mouth only to shut it again very quickly, and look into my face to assure himself I did not notice his awkwardness.

At first, I wondered if I had injured him in some way, and tried to recollect if I had committed any offenses against the good old man, but could think of none (apart from an incident on the first day of the snow, where I had thrown a snowball at him, and he turned and regarded me most grievously, until I promised never to do it again). I supposed it was simply another of his eccentricities and regarded it as such, until my aunt illuminated me on the topic while we sat around the fireplace one evening very near Christmas.

Upon my first day home, my aunt had told me, in advance, that it was not a custom of hers and Mr. Dick's to exchange presents on the occasion as others did, and I told her truthfully that it did not matter to me.

"I got a Noah's Ark once," Mr. Dick had said, thoughtfully, "but I lost all the pieces."

"Yes you did, Dick – but that was for your birthday," my aunt returned. "At any rate, in _this_ house, our greatest gift is good company (call me a fussbudget of an old woman, but I _do_ believe so, and _will_, and no one can convince me otherwise), and I think we are certainly not in want of that!"

I had thought no more of it, for as my aunt said, the company she and Mr. Dick provided me was worth more than anything material I could have asked of them – though Mr. Dick's discomfit in my presence was something I could have done without.

Indeed, on the evening of December 23rd, he was very agitated. We were gathered around the fire (as I have said); I was sitting across from my aunt, looking at a book about India, which she had procured from me out of her own library, but I was often interrupted in my reading by the sound of Mr. Dick opening his mouth, and drawing a breath, as if he wished to say something; then, when I raised my eyes, he quickly shut it up again and was much abashed.

After the first two times, I also perceived my Aunt, attempting to be discreet, but looking hard at Mr. Dick with a meaning in her eyes, which only increased the old man's confusion. At last, between my aunt's peremptory staring, and her companion's eccentricity, I ventured to ask if there was anything the matter?

Mr. Dick looked more startled than ever, and my aunt gave him such an accusatory glance I did not blame him, before she turned to me. "Well, Trot, it seems, despite our best intentions, our secret is betrayal." Mr. Dick breathed a sigh of relief, but I replied, "Not so betrayed as you think, Aunt, for I do not know what you mean."

"I suppose you saw Dick gaping about the house like a fish these past few days, and that is because I made the mistake of entrusting him with a secret, which I know the poor man would have kept to his grave – but the keeping of it did enough harm, on its own! You're a smart boy, Trot, and so I suppose you must know I was rather weak, and tender-hearted, and abandoned my good sensible tradition in buying you a gift! Now what do you think of that!"

I thought, privately, I was not so intelligent as she gave me credit for, for that idea had not crossed my mind at all. But what I said was, "You are much too good to me, Aunt! And I don't believe you should feel guilty or consider your tradition to be broken – you simply insisted that we remember our company to be our greatest present to each other, and I _do _believe that, and would and will, no matter if you bought me a gift or not!"

My aunt hugged me tight, and informed me she would not say another word about my gift and would console herself by refusing to break her tradition until Christmas day, but that she hoped the intelligence would relieve Mr. Dick's conscience, at least somewhat, and I said I hoped so, too.

"Oh, you can't imagine how it does!" that gentleman responded, blithely. "For you see, now I have no apprehensions that I will accidentally tell Trotwood about the pocket-watch he is to receive. No, no apprehensions about _that_ – none in the slightest!"

Judging from the look on my aunt's face though, I thought perhaps he would, soon enough.


	5. Shepherds and Kings

**Shepherds and Kings**

* * *

"Master Copperfield, I declare! Is that you? Ah, it _is_ you! Wait for me!"

I turned to look over my shoulder without much interest, and observed Uriah Heep waving at me from down the street, and eagerly advancing in my direction. I ought to have known I might run into him, here in town – I knew well enough he was sent to the bank on Thursdays – and I could easily have avoided him and his blandishments had I not stopped on my way home from Dr. Strong's school. But it could not be helped now and I waited, with a considerable amount of apathy, which I suspect was easily observed, until Uriah finally reached my side.

For his 17th birthday Uriah had had a new mulberry-colored greatcoat – the result, he had told me over and over again, for many weeks afterward, of his mother's extensive scrimping and saving. I am not sure whether it was owing to the greatcoat's deficiency of proportion, or Uriah's, that it was entirely too large about his neck, and entirely too short about his wrists, which protruded, raw and chapped, beyond the edges of his sleeves. He also appeared to be struggling a great deal with a few heavy books and ledgers; I offered to carry one or two, but he protested most vehemently, and struggled more than ever. "Oh, no, Master Copperfield – being Mr. Wickfield's umble yet confidential clerk, it is my duty and job to manage the account books. I couldn't trouble _you_ with such modest work, oh no, not _you_, Master Copperfield."

As that young man fumbled along by my side, I observed that winter, evidently, did not agree with the humors of Uriah Heep. The cold air so operated upon his complexion that his nose was a shade of red fit to rival his hair, and as we walked, he was continually dabbing at every orifice in his head with a filmy handkerchief. That, or sniffling and gasping for air by turns.

Despite all this, he maintained an exceedingly pleasant attitude as we made our journey home. I never quite knew what to say to Uriah when we found ourselves alone, and we went on in silence for some time, until, at length, he eyed a package, wrapped in paper, which was half-tucked inside my coat pocket. He looked at it stealthily, I thought, but inquired quite politely, "Were you shopping for Christmas presents, Master Copperfield? I suppose you must start rather early, having so many friends. I do not have to, of course – I have only mother, and one or two others – but I suppose _you_ would."

I could feel my face grow red under his steady glance. "Actually, Uriah, I – I just stopped in to buy a few sticks of sugar candy, to tell the truth." I had noticed some in the shop window the day before, and decided to purchase some for myself and Agnes, if I could prevail upon her to share. And indeed, I would have thought Uriah might have figured this out, having seen me emerge from the sweet shop, but he appeared so innocent of the matter, I had to assume I was mistaken.

"_Not_ shopping for others, then?" he echoed. "Oh! I should have thought you would be! But not being much accustomed to possessing pocket money myself, I am sure I am the _last_ person to know how to use it properly!"

I bit my cheek, but said nothing, and wished we were closer to home or, at least, that his books were a little heavier, so as to require more of his attention.

"But then, that is the best part of Christmas – if I may make such an umble observation," he continued, smiling.

"What is? I am afraid I don't understand you."

"Oh, really, Master Copperfield – it is of no matter!" he cried. "But what I meant, since you are so good to ask, is that Christmas reminds me how glad – even blessed – I am to be umble (which I am). I often think of the story of the first Christmas – you are quite familiar with it, I daresay?"

I said I was, and hoped everyone was, to which he emphatically agreed. He walked on, awkward books crammed under each arm, with his red, streaming face lifted thoughtfully in the air. "When I think of that story, Master Copperfield, I am gladdened to know that both shepherds _and _kings were there for the blessed occasion. Our Lord was very grateful, I'm sure, for the gifts (gold, and frankincense, and myrrh, I believe it was) and honors of those splendid kings, but he _also_ appreciated the umble attentions of the poor shepherds. It's as if he says, "fine or umble, it is all the same to me!" And really, that is quite rewarding to an umble person like me. There are those as has, and those as has_ not_, but we are all free to worship our Lord, in our little ways," he concluded, piously.

He was so _very_ pious, that I thought I ought to feel rather shabby in buying candy for myself, and indeed for having pocket money at all – and I think this was exactly the effect he intended, as he cast another sidelong glance at the package in my coat pocket.

I let out a discontented sigh and reached for that package. "Uriah, would you like a stick of candy? Come now, don't protest," for it seemed the idea hadn't crossed his mind in the slightest, in his shrill professions of humility.

"Oh dear me, Master Copperfield! This is – really, it is – _too much_! But – " he added, considering with a thoughtful face, "who am I, to prevent someone in the 'appiness of giving?"

I told him I was sure I did not know; and Uriah took the candy I offered, with his cold raw hand, and thanked me extensively. When he was finished with his thanks, he put the candy contentedly in his own pocket, for the present. But I later saw him eating away at it in his office, ostentatiously "making it last," as he said, for many, many days afterwards.


	6. Sentiment and Sapphires

_**A/N:**__ Why am I not surprised the David/Agnes one is twice as long? It takes space to fit in all their praises of each other! :P_

**Sentiment and Sapphires**

* * *

I have already mentioned my usual custom, during the time of my pleasant stay in Mr. Wickfield's Canterbury home, of being claimed, on December 20th, by my aunt, and of being whisked away to the cottage in Dover to spend Christmas with herself and Mr. Dick. But there are still days in the Christmas season before December 20th, and after the 27th – and those days belonged to Agnes, and her alone.

Every year of the five I lived in Mr. Wickfield's house, I felt more and more that Christmastime was the time Agnes was at her best, the time when I felt her presence and influence most keenly though, in her constancy, she herself had not changed at all. It was a grave Christmas, in the quiet house, to be sure: not much marked by feasting or merrymaking – and yet the little simple and solemn proceedings were truer, I thought, or more like a real Christmas, than any of the others I had spent thus far. It was a fine sight to me, to see Agnes passing softly through the house, freshening the arrangements of greenery she had carefully placed herself a week or so before (indeed, the swags in her father's office received special attention, and not a needle turned brown in all the season), and leaving them greener and brighter; to see her, in a little pair of netted mitts she had, deftly making gifts for all she knew, as she listened to me in my lessons, and holding up one or two with pleasure, that she might smile at my admiration, with which I was very liberal. Sometimes, I would look up to see her pass by my window, in a crimson cloak and bonnet, with a basket on her arm, and I knew some child in a cold hovel would be blessed that day, and remember it ever afterward; and I think the little boy in me wished I had had a Miss Wickfield, in the time of Murdstone and Grimby's.

Indeed, I sometimes accompanied Agnes in these expeditions, usually convincing her to allow me to carry the basket, and she would laughingly put her hand on my arm as we hurried along down the frigid streets together. When we came away from whatever family we visited that day – and there were so very, very many – I was usually quite sensible of the good deed I had just performed, and rather higher in spirits than previously. Perhaps it is a testament to the nature of our characters that Agnes came away thoughtful, and saddened, as if aware of some impossible weight that she could not push away with all the charity in the world – and she would look around at the stalls in the shops, laden with goods so unattainable to those who needed them most, and shake her head. Her basket was always heavier on each successive day.

On December 20th (the day when, I believe, her basket was heaviest of all), I did not accompany her, but stayed behind to pack my portmanteau and carpetbag, so that they might be trim and neat for my aunt's arrival. After managing to fit just five more books in my portmanteau, I bethought myself to get my umbrella, which might prove useful in the journey (a light snow was falling already) and which I left in the hall. Although I sought that article, I did not find, and I was puzzling on these circumstances, when I heard the heavy front door open, and a light step in the hallway.

"Why, Trotwood!" Agnes said in some astonishment, her cheeks quite flushed from the cold, "What are you doing in the hallway? Are you finished packing for the journey?"

I told her I was, and inquired whether she had seen my umbrella, to which she answered she had not, though she would help me to look. Eventually she found it lodged under Uriah Heep's greatcoat, and waited patiently as I muttered, with some severity, that he could afford to be more careful of another's belongings – until I observed she held her hands behind her back, and looked rather shy.

"What is it, Agnes?" I asked.

"Trotwood," she told me in her cordial way, "since you are going away today I – I thought I would give you your gift in advance, although I know we usually wait till you return. I hope you will not think it unfair of me for so deciding, but I thought you might make some use of it in Dover." And saying so, Agnes drew from beneath her cloak a little book, bound in the most exquisite leather, which she handed to me.

"Why – why Agnes! Upon my soul I – why, this is splendid!" I told her, quite incoherently, for I had never received such a handsome gift before, and certainly not from Agnes. I carefully lifted the cover, and found fresh white pages ready to be filled with writing, and even noticed, with delight, the fine marble endpapers that guarded the fair untouched papers in between.

"It…it is a journal, from the bookseller, you know. I thought you might like a place to keep your thoughts, perhaps, for I know you are always thinking – or perhaps you could write down your stories so you would not forget them."

"But Agnes! I cried, hugging her, to her infinite wonder, "How did you manage to purchase this?"

"I put aside a little, every month," she said, with a smile. "It did not require quite so much sacrifice as you think, I'm afraid." Then she added, with a little laugh, that in fact she thought there was a bit of selfishness in the bargain, "For I expect you to write me a fine story in it." I told her I would, and would start it as soon as I had a pen, when she gave a little start, and said she had forgotten to write an inscription, and would I mind it very much if she wrote a few words on the flyleaf?

"On the contrary, I believe that would be the only improvement!" I returned, and so she led me to a desk she had in her little sitting room, where she found pen and ink.

I watched her as she carefully inscribed, upon the flyleaf, "_To David Trotwood Copperfield, Christmas, 18 –"_ and then she paused, as if she were unsure how to sign her name to it. She lingered a moment, with the pen in her hand, and then I fancied I heard her murmur, "Of course," – and she added, in her pretty handwriting, "_from his affectionate sister." _When the ink was quite dry, she returned the book to me.

"I shall have to pack this to take to my aunt's house," I told her, "I know she will want to see it, though she will convince me (as I well know myself, I am afraid) that I cannot give you anything so fine as this upon my return."

"Trotwood," Agnes returned, with her placid smile, "you are too much impressed by very meager kindnesses, truly! And after all, I ought to make you a present while I can, for we do not know how many more holidays you shall spend in Canterbury. You had better make haste," she added, glancing at the clock. "Miss Trotwood will be here soon."

Now it was my turn to give a start, and after thanking the dear girl once more, I hurried to my room, to decide which of my thirty books I would leave behind, and replace with Agnes' journal.

-x-

"I should never wish to imply Miss Agnes Wickfield deals in the business of falsehoods," my aunt told me, when I showed her the leather book, "but I think this fine book to be worth more than a little pocket money – I should think so, indeed!"

"I agree, Aunt," I replied. "And though I thought all the way home, I could not think of a suitable gift to give Agnes in return. I usually buy her a pair of gloves or offer to help her with her housework or some such nonsense, and while I know she appreciates that well enough, this year is different. As she said, this might be my last Christmas at Canterbury, and it requires something more meaningful."

My aunt (and, as consequence, Mr. Dick) agreed in my opinion, and immediately all three of us put our combined mental capacity toward the consideration of the problem. We persisted in our thinking, even throughout dinner, and though our senses were dulled a bit by the consumption of the ham which I have before mentioned, we all kept at it with great perseverance.

Reticules, shawls, sewing scissors, and a small tiger (Mr. Dick's suggestion) had all been measured and found wanting, and I think my aunt might have uttered a few lamentations regarding Agnes' perfect silence on her wants and needs.

"You could…give her a hug!" Mr. Dick suggested, after a great effort of thought. "I think she would like that."

"True enough, Mr. Dick," my aunt responded, "although not very personalized, especially from an affectionate young gentleman like Trot. Does she ever ask for _anything_, the poor girl?"

"Never," said I. "She got a new blue dress a few months ago, at her birthday, and was quite abashed at the expense."

"Blue, eh?" my aunt repeated absently. "Hem! Why, Trot, I think we have found a solution after all. Come with me, my boy."

My aunt shoved away from the table with such force Mr. Dick jumped, and I quickly followed her to her own room, where I found her already at her dressing table, rummaging around in a simple mahogany box in which she kept her few trinkets. I had only ever seen her take out a pearl brooch from that box, and had never imagined there to be much else. I was very surprised, then, when she drew forth a slender silver chain, from which hung a simple sapphire cross.

"This will suit nicely, I think," my aunt pronounced, carefully handing it to me. It felt cool to the very touch, and I turned it over, carefully examining the blue stones. It was so unlike anything I would have connected with my aunt, and I felt she perceived this, for she presently remarked, "It is but a trifle; it belonged to my mother, and it would have gone to your sister, Miss Betsey Trotwood Copperfield, had she so desired it." She was silent for a moment, before adding, "And as you are not much in the habit of wearing jeweled necklaces yourself (I hope), I can think of no better use for it than to give it to Agnes Wickfield who, as you never cease to remind me, has been quite a sister to you, in her own right."

"You are too good to me, aunt," I told her, earnestly.

"Not good enough, sometimes, but then we are never quite so good to those who deserve it most." I really did not know what to say, and kept turning over the pretty necklace in my hand. "Are these real sapphires?" I asked, at last.

"I should hope so," my aunt responded, dryly. Not wishing to offend her, I explained that I must offer some compensation for something so fine, and so precious to her. At first she was very indignant at this suggestion, though I was very earnest and insisted that I could not simply take her necklace, and give it as a gift from me, without some sacrifice on my part; so at last she consented to set aside a portion of my pocket money every month, as payment for the article, for as long as she felt fit. "But this money is in payment for my _idea_, and to satisfy your conscience, Trotwood," she reminded me. "To pay for this little necklace with money would do it a dishonor." I agreed wholeheartedly, and she smiled.

"Now come," she ordered me, in her usual way, "– we must make sure Mr. Dick don't make himself ill on ham!"

-x-

Christmas came and went at the cottage in Dover, and in a twinkling, it seemed, we were already making our journey back to Canterbury. I had the necklace tucked into my waistcoat pocket, and spent my time in either feeling it to convince myself it was safely there, or looking at my journal, with Agnes' inscription.

I found the real Agnes waiting for me, as always, in her red cloak and bonnet, sprinkled lightly with snow. She gave me a bright smile, and hugged my aunt (who was very glad to see her, but refused to stop inside), before quickly pulling me into the house where it was warmer.

"You have had a good holiday, I trust?" she asked, as I established myself by the fire.

"Oh – oh yes," I answered, laughing. "Mr. Dick was quite jolly, and soaked all his woolens in charitably warming a snowman."

"Oh, the poor dear! In such adventures," she added, with a trifling bit of mischief, "I suppose you could not find the time to write your dear sister her story? Or are you waiting for inspiration?"

"I am," I replied. "Any story I dedicate to you must be uncommonly profound! But while I was there I – well, I do have a give for you Agnes, which I hope you like."

Agnes' smile vanished. "Oh – I never meant – "

I pulled out my little paper-wrapped parcel, and carefully placed it in her hands.

"Really, Trot, you needn't give me anything!"

"As you said," I assured her, a little surprised by her curious expression, "there is some selfishness in the bargain, for I would have felt ungrateful to give you nothing in return. Now do open the package, Agnes, or else…" I searched for some dreadful fate, "I'll give it to Uriah Heep, and we shall all three be sorry for it."

Even Agnes could not consent to that proposal, and so she very carefully slit the paper, and very carefully drew out the necklace, and was silent all the while. She was silent while she looked at it, though I broke the still by explaining it had come from my aunt, and would have been for my sister, thereby hoping to assure her that while it had been chosen carefully, it had not been much sacrifice to me.

"I…I really do not know what to say, Trotwood, other than – it is very like you." In response, I asked her if she would do me the honor of trying it on?

She fastened it carefully about her throat, where it hung serenely, and where (when the light caught it) it threw spots of blue about her white skin.

"Now, Agnes, tell me," I implored her, for with her uncommon reaction (she still remained very quiet) I must admit I was really rather unsure, "do you like it?"

"Of course!" she said – she loved it – though she added she was afraid I spoiled her very much, and then she hugged me, and told me I was very dear and good. When she wore it to dinner that night, even her father, in his distraction, noticed it, and told her it suited her very well; and I saw her smile as I had never seen her smile before.

I only ever saw Agnes remove that little necklace two or three times after that; the first being on the day of my wedding, when she wore a necklace of pearls and beads which, I knew, had belonged to her mother; the last on the day my child-wife was laid in earth. I wondered at it then; indeed, I had come to associate the blue cross with her so closely, that it seemed as though a part of her was wanting, when she was without it. But in time, I grew to understand its absence better.


	7. Red and Green

**Red and Green**

* * *

Dora and I shared but one Christmas as husband and wife. It is strange for me to think so now, but so it was. We were married in the spring – Christmas came – by next year, I was quite alone. But I do have many tender memories of that time, and no holiday passes for me, now, when I fail to think of the little foolish Christmas Dora and I spent in our poor cottage, and of one episode in particular which I shall try to relate, as I recall it, here.

I had been abashed to find that our bank account was not so full as I could have wished, as the end of the year began to come round and Dora began to chatter, merrily, about all the extensive Christmas plans, which I knew we couldn't possibly realize. We were to organize sleigh rides, and hold a little party and make cakes (she decided she would learn, and even ventured to say she might review the cookery book, for that occasion), and she would have a new dress, of course, and make the house beautiful, and buy all manner of lovely presents for everyone, especially (she said) Agnes. "I should like to have Christmas just exactly like I did at home, you know, Doady," she told me. "It was my most favorite time of year."

She looked up at me with such eager blue eyes, I admit I was a little angry with her – yes, angry, though I am ashamed to say so now. Didn't the poor girl know we barely had enough to pay our bills, even after I'd been paid for one or two Christmas stories I had written to supplement our income? Was she really requiring me to tell her this year's Christmas would be very different from the ones she remembered fondly, and so to break her heart?

I just agreed with her at first, but I slowly began to suggest we might have a rather simple Christmas the next times she picked up the subject.

"But Doady," she sulked, at last, pulling Jip's ears crossly, "what is the fun in that? We _must_ have festivities."

"We also must _eat_, Dora, and keep warm," I reminded her. "And – I fear we cannot do both." At which statement she burst into tears, fervently, like a child, and I said no more for fear I should grieve her further.

Slowly, Dora became accustomed to this way of thought, and I was very proud of her for understanding. But I knew she also grew sadder, as the realization grew, and I felt monstrous for hurting her happiness, even though I knew it couldn't be helped.

A week or so before Christmas, though, she seemed in better spirits, and I wondered, could I, perhaps, follow the example Mr. Micawber had set me, those many years ago? "Perhaps we needn't have a _beggar's_ Christmas," I considered. "We needn't abandon all ideas of fun or merriment." I therefore decided to stop off on my way home Christmas Eve, with a little goose, and a ham, and some red Christmas flowers which I believed would please my child-wife.

I was indeed expecting, I fear, a display of excitement from Dora at these offerings, but arriving home, I was surprised to find our parlor empty, and Dora missing entirely.

I wondered if she had gone to visit my aunt, but thought she would have told me if she had so intended, and I put down my bundles in our kitchen, in wonder. I stepped among our front rooms. "Dora?" I called. "Dora, my love, I'm home!"

Suddenly, I heard Jip begin to bark near the back of the house, and quickly leave off, as if he'd been silenced; and I decided to investigate immediately.

"Dora, where are you? What are you doing?"

"Nothing, Doady, my love!" Dora called, from our bedroom. "Don't come in!" she added, with a little scream, as I began to open the door – and I saw her two white arms (and only those) dart out in an effort to capture Jip, who, in a dash, wriggled out of the crack in the doorway. I quickly caught him up and found him in possession of a new red ribbon tied round his neck.

"Come now, Dora, what is the meaning of this foolishness?" I demanded.

"It's _not_ foolish," she cried from behind the door, almost desperately, "only, I know you will be angry with me, but I couldn't help it!" I heard her burst into tears, and now more than a little unnerved, I let Jip down and opened the door to our chamber, unsure what to expect there. On the other side stood Dora, sobbing, in the loveliest green silk dress I ever saw, her pretty curls tumbling sadly over her shoulders. I was speechless for a moment, and Dora came into my arms and cried as though she expected me to beat her.

"My dear girl!" I cried, hugging her, and holding her away so I could look at her, in almost the same instant. "Dora, pray, tell me what is the matter?"

"It's new!" she wept – meaning the dress.

"I…I can see that. Are you upset because we hadn't the money, Dora?" Because I had already don't the calculations in my head, and knew that must be the case.

"No!" she sobbed. "I'm upset because you'll think I was foolish, Doady! But – but I didn't spend any extra money! I…I saved up my allowance because – because I wanted to buy you a watch, because you are so good – and then I went into the shop – and I saw this dress and – it was so lovely – I bought it instead for myself, Doady! And you you haven't any present at all! Only a foolish little wife (who _did_ try to be good!) in a pretty dress! And what would you want with _that?!"_

"Oh, Dora," I said, softly, smoothing her hair to comfort her.

"It _is_ pretty though?" she asked anxiously.

"It is _beautiful_. Pray, Dora, don't distress yourself. I don't need a pocketwatch." In fact, the one my aunt had given me was still running strong. "I only wish to see you happy, my love. That is all I need, truly."

She looked up at me through glistening eyes. :Oh, Doady, I tried to be good for you, because I want YOU to be happy!"

"Well I have a sweet wife, who, I find, looks lovely in green – and so I think I ought to be very content, and I am."

"So am I," she laughed, through her tears.

"And I brought home some things," I added, as I led her to the kitchen, and she let out a little squeal, and rushed to the red flowers, and kissed me many times over.

That evening, we sat by the fire, and she laid her head against my shoulder. "_This_ Christmas is not like the old Christmases, Doady," she told me, thoughtfully. "And I thought I would be very sad, but you see, I am very, very happy."

I was very happy too, and told her so. I had but on such Christmas with her – I am sure our others would have been very happy too. But I must be contented with the memories, now – and I _do_ remember that year, whenever I see a bouquet of red Christmas flowers, or a smiling young lady in a green silk dress.

-X-

Yes, I have many memories of past Christmases – holidays of my childhood, my adolescence, even times when I was a young man – and think myself immeasurably fortunate to have been surrounded by people who have made my history meaningful and bright. I count these memories among the greatest of my many blessings and gifts, and hope to make many more, at Christmas, and all through the year, with those people I love the most.


End file.
